London Rain
by Holland Cross
Summary: After Hermione and Ron split, she is desperate to get away and jumps at an offer from the Ministry to work on location in London. She attempts to lose herself in work to mend her broken heart, but instead finds herself entangled in a web of intrigue with her mysteriously charming neighbour, Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Hermione glanced at the piece of paper in her hand, then back up at the building across the street.

"This can't be right," she muttered to herself, frowning as she crumpled the note deep into the pocket of her wool coat.

The wind howled, washing her in a spray of cold London rain. She shivered and pulled her collar close as she surveyed the run-down sandwich shop. It was set, rather crudely, she thought, into the bottom level of a decaying brownstone that otherwise would have shown some potential. But there was no way this was where the Ministry had intended for her to live during her placement. She had imagined they would set her up somewhere a bit more posh, perhaps in a better part of the city. The rain began to come down in sheets, and for a brief moment she considered heading to her childhood home instead.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind that she was filled with ache and longing. Of course she couldn't visit her parents; they had no idea who she was. Her spell, like all her spells, had been quite effective. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of them, then overflowed at the thought of Ron and Rose. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled a quick gasp of air. She couldn't do this again. The decision had been made and she had let them all go. They didn't remember her now, so there was no point in crying over them. She tilted her head to the sky and let the rain wash away her tears before grabbing her bag and sloshing her way across the street.

Once on the sidewalk, a stranger darted across her path. He was a tall man who seemed to be heading to the unit next to hers in a rush to get out of the rain. He didn't even glance at her as he strode by, eagerly pulling a set of keys from his pocket. There was an amulet tangled up in them that clattered to the ground.

A dark red disk of sorts, glowing from within and threaded with gold. About the size of a bottle cap. She recognized it immediately.

"Excuse me, sir," she yelled over the rain.

He ignored her as he fumbled to get his key in the lock.

"Sir," she repeated, stooping down to pick up the talisman "You dropped this…"

His head snapped up, suddenly allowing himself to be aware of her presence. Icy eyes above razor sharp cheekbones tore into her, and she felt her cheeks flush at the thought of how bedraggled she must look.

In one deft movement he closed the space between them and snatched the stone from her outstretched hand. This tall dark stranger with his hawk-like tendencies was easy on the eyes but not good with first impressions.

He looked down at her bags, then to the key in her hand.

"You're moving in here," he breathed matter-of-factly, and her heart fluttered.

"I am. And you, I suppose, are my new neighbor? Wonderful to make your acquaintance. My name is Hermione Wea…" she paused to clear her throat, "Granger. Hermione Granger."

Her scowls at her and continues to peer at her with those ethereal eyes as the rain comes down around them.

"Pleasure," he muttered, before abruptly turning and heading inside. Slamming the door shut behind him without looking back, he leaves her stunned with her hand still outstretched.

"OK then," she thought to herself. It was probably for the best that she didn't get too chummy with the locals anyway. She did, after all, have some serious work to do. The Ministry had agreed to her transfer on heavy assignment conditions, but they weren't aware how badly she had needed to escape the world she had adopted as her new home. They had merely assumed the Muggle missed her Muggle world, and off she went.

The green paint on the door was weathered and peeling, but the locks seemed new. The key that had been assigned to her slid in easily, and she entered into her new home.

It may be a little run down, but perhaps life at 221C Baker Street wouldn't be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione lay awake in the darkness of her room. A streetlamp breaks through the blinds, and in the cuts she can see rain beat the glass. For hours she had been trying to busy her mind with productive thoughts to keep memories at bay, but as soon as sleep threatens to take her she can only see one thing: Ron. Flashes of the two of them together sidle into her head:

 _A Sunday morning in bed. She was reading the paper when he rolled over and sleepily nuzzled her shoulder for attention…_

 _She laughed, tossing the paper down and embracing him, together rolling deeper into a cloud of white blankets…_

 _The warmth of his lips, smiling and pressed against the side of her neck…_

 _His head lost in a tangle of her wild hair, one hand on the small of her back, pulling her close, another gently pushing her reading glasses off her face as he as he rose to meet her lips…_

 _A kiss through laughter as he blindly fumbled to lay the glasses on the nightstand because she'd kill him if he just dropped them on the floor beside the bed…_

 _Glasses out of harm's way, he brings his hand up to cradle her face, and the laughter subsides…_

 _His hand in her hair, he kisses her deeply, shifting his weight on top of her…_

 _Her hand traces his spine…_

 _Warmth…_

 _Lips…_

 _Ron…_

Memories are heavy tendrils wrapped around her stomach, and she squeezes her eyes shut and groans.

 _Think about something else._

 _Anything else._

Her new home had been furnished, but inhospitably so. There was plenty of dusting to be done. She rose from her bed, and the wrought iron frame creaked in protest. For a moment, she just stood there in the orange glow of the streetlight. Wearing simple cotton shorts and a matching bralette, she closes her eyes and allows the chill to seep into her exposed skin.

 _Think about something else._

 _Anything else._

 _The amulet._

Her eyes snap open. How had she forgotten? The wooden floorboards creak beneath her as she pads quietly out of the room and down the corridor to the office. While her bedroom consisted only of a deep sagging mattress and vintage bedframe, and her living room was merely a dingy couch gnawed beyond its prime by vermin, this was the sole room the Ministry had fully equipped.

Entering the room, she flicks her wrist and whispers " _Incendio."_

As a fire ignites in the hearth in the far corner of the room, and on the wicks of various candles throughout, she silently thanks Mr. Ollivander for forging a ring from the handle of her wand. Without it, discreetly using magic around Muggles would have been tricky.

She surveys the room, not yet accustomed to the layout of her new surroundings.

A plush Persian rug sprawls across the floor, snaking beneath the legs of an overstuffed chair and matching couch. A large oak desk overflows with paperwork and quills. Boxes of files are piled around the room in various states of assemblage, some pristinely set to the side, others partially open with bits of protruding parchment. She begins sifting through boxes laid out along the floor next to a bookshelf full of dusty research manuals, searching for what she knew would confirm where she had seen her strange neighbor's talisman before. A few moments later, she pulls out a tattered edition of the Daily Prophet.

The image of a young man glares at her from the front page. A shock of dirty blonde waves whipping around his face as silent winds tear around him, his full lips pressed into a grim line as he clutches his robe closed. The red amulet gleams from beneath the folds from a chain around his neck. Hermione's heart plummets and she steadies herself against the wall. Heart racing, she re-reads the headline beneath the image:

 _7 Muggle families murdered; former Hogwarts prodigy still at large  
_ _Officials are seeking Aries Kane, 28, in connection to a string of recent London-area homicides_

Hermione lets the paper fall to the floor, exhausted. She hadn't wanted to believe it at first, thinking perhaps her memories were finally slipping away from her. But it was confirmed: she was living next door to someone who was, in some way or another, connected to the wizard who had just spent the last four months viciously killing innocent men, women, and in two cases, children.

Suddenly, a strange sound pulls her away from her thoughts.

She peers down the hallway to her front door.

From the other side of it, there is faint scratching, then a loud thud that makes her jump.

She braces herself at the rattle of the doorknob.

Another, louder thump.

Someone was trying to break into her home.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione tiptoes cautiously to the door, which is now being rattled so hard the hinges shake. Over the years, she has learned how to silently cast spells using only her mind, but it often requires her to be close to the objects she intends to enchant.

She raises her hands, palms towards the door, and takes a deep breath.

As she does, the wood appears to warp and bend. It quivers and shudders from the power she is exuding, before seeming to melt layer by layer.

Seconds later her efforts reveal a window that allows her to see the cloaked figure hunched on her stoop. Rain pours over the brim of a deerstalker hat as he continues to struggle to get in. A muffled shout nearby forces the culprit to jerk towards the sound, basking his face in the glow of the streetlight.

She recognizes the face as that of her neighbor- who, with those eyes and cheekbones, is either ridiculously attractive or closely resembles some sort of serpentine extra-terrestrial.

Another figure emerges from the darkness behind him. Hermione watches as the newcomer attempts to coax him away from her door. She notices her neighbor is staggering, and though she can't hear much through the heavy wood separating her from them, she can tell he's fairly intoxicated.

" _Typical,"_ she thinks to herself, both relieved and increasingly annoyed.

But just when she thinks the excitement has ended, a modest tussle erupts between the strange pair. The drunk one, being notably difficult and still clinging to a rather large bottle, manages to wrestle something from the other one's coat and points it at her doorknob.

 _Wait, is that…?_

Before she can finish the thought, someone screams _NO-_ followed by a _BANG._

She can't contain a yelp of surprise as her doorknob falls to the floor, letting the entrance swing open to her standing there, hand to heart, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. The two figures in her doorway stand there a moment, looking at her, before the one who just shot her bloody door open saunters over the threshold and flicks on the foyer light.

"Right then, ," the tall rude stranger from earlier sways as he removes his hat and coat and abruptly tumbles past her into the den.

"Tea for old wet-blanket Watson here, and a tumbler with ice for me," he yells, shaking the half empty bottle above his head.

Still stunned, Hermione looks in disbelief from him to his accomplice in her doorway. He's a smaller man, who looks as if he's just swallowed a cricket as he clenches his own hat between slightly trembling hands.

"He… almost… shot me!" The words tumble from her lips but fail to relay the damage done to her poor nerves.

"Um… terribly… terribly sorry…" the man offers a nervous reply.

"He pulled out a gun and shot through my door!" She's yelling now, as if the man had not been a witness to recent events.

"Quite right miss, but, um, pardon me…" He motions to her body, which until now she had forgotten was barely clothed.

A loud _CRACK_ from the den, followed by a cackle from her intruder, allows her no time for modesty.

"Brilliant!" the man yells from the next room, "Never leaving home without gunpowder again! Come Watson, warm yourself by the fire!"

The man- Watson- shoots her an apologetic glance as he slips past her to collect his nuisance comrade.

" _Oh, please, do come in, pair of complete strangers_." Hermione shakes her head in disbelief as she pushes what's left of her front door shut and heads to her room for a bathrobe.


	4. Chapter 4

When she returns, she finds the taller man holding his friend at arm's length by the forehead. He giggles and takes a triumphant swig as a flustered Watson flails in a vain attempt to snatch the booze from his grasp. Hermione glares at them and clears her throat, arms folded neatly across the front of her floral robe.

They both freeze in their ridiculous game of keep-away and look over at her sheepishly. Watson quickly slaps the drunk's hand away, embarrassed.

"Miss, please, _please_ forgive us," he clasps his hands together in desperation.

"This has all been a terrible confusion. Sherlock's been going through a bit of a rough patch as of late, and he hasn't been handling it well," he tilts his head knowingly towards the bottle from which his friend has been drinking.

"There was truly no ill-intent, I assure you. He merely confused your door for his and, unfortunately for us, can be quite stubborn in his pursuits. The bastard is near impossible to reason with at times like these, I'm afraid…"

Hermione holds up a hand, silencing him.

"Just stop. I'm only concerned about two things. Firstly, can we please ensure this maniac does not get hold of another gun any time soon?"

Watson nods and shoots a stern glance at Sherlock, who is by now once again in his own little world, humming and swaying gently to imaginary music.

"Secondly," Hermione continues, "I'll expect financial reimbursement for the door. I'm sorry to hear the two of you are having troubles, but a strange couple's problems are not reflective of my own."

The look on Watson's face indicates her error.

"Oh my goodness, you're not… you're not a couple, are you?" _Stupidstupidstupid,_ "Please forgive me, I just assumed…"

"Don't worry; it happens all the time," Watson dismisses her remark with a smile and a wave of his hand, "Really. You'd be surprised how often people talk about the two of us being together."

"Now, Doctor," Sherlock is forced to close one eye and squint to focus on his friend, "You know the tale of our love would be one for the ages! Don't be so quick to dismiss your feelings for me!"

Hermione and Watson stand awkwardly as Sherlock hiccups out a laugh. Comedic timing is certainly not a skill he has mastered.

"Right then, Mr. Funny Man, I'll take that," Hermione, fed up with his antics, plucks the bottle from his grasp. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and twists his face in a look of mock despondence, before sneering and reaching into a hidden pocket of his blazer.

"No worries, madam! I've brought spares!" He deftly pulls out another, this time smaller, bottle and begins to hop around excitedly.

"Another one!" Watson sighs and massages his temples, "How many pockets do you have in that bloody jacket, Holmes?"

Hermione senses 'Holmes' has no intentions of leaving her humble abode any time soon, and she studies the bottle in her hand. Defeated in more ways than one, she extends it Watson.

"Drink, then?"

His shoulders sag as he struggles to ignore Sherlock gleefully prancing circles around him.

"Would love one," he concedes.

Deeper into the night, Hermione finds herself in compelling conversation with _Doctor_ John Watson. Perhaps it was the bottle of Scotch, which now lay empty between them on the sagging couch, but she quite enjoys his company.

"So, you mentioned earlier he was going through a bit of a rough patch," Hermione questioned, letting her gaze fall on Sherlock, who has happily been keeping to himself.

"Ah, yes, well, we're facing a particularly frustrating case at work, and, well, let's just say, with his reputation, he's not used to not being able to figure things out," Watson chuckles as he takes a sip of his drink, as if he's made the understatement of the year.

Watson had lightly explained their line of work, and Hermione knew the pair had been investigating the murders Aries Kane had committed. Of course, she couldn't tell them the reason they couldn't link together any clues was because the case stemmed from the World of Wizardry. A pair of Muggle's trying to decipher such a case… Well. No wonder Sherlock had flown off his rocker. To top it all off, the criminal in this particular case was no ordinary wizard.

Aries Kane had been renowned for his genius and unnatural abilities to harness his powers. An exceptionally talented young wizard, he had advanced through two crucial years of education at Hogwarts- only to disappear one semester before graduating seventh year. _Imagine, just throwing away so many amazing scholarly opportunities!_ It wasn't until years later that he reappeared, at the scene of the first of what would be many brutal killings.

"Truly, though," Watson whispers, motioning towards his friend, "The man is a royal pain in the arse!"

He and Hermione erupt into a fit of giggles as Sherlock turns to them.

"I'll have you both know;" he yawns from the far side of the room, "Some would consider me playfully vexing. And my actions have nothing to do with ego, Watson. We are the sum of our thoughts. If I can't un-muddle the mess in my brain enough to solve a crime then that must mean I am a useless puddle of a man, in which case: cheers!"

He pops the cork from ( _yes- yet another)_ bottle and brings it to his lips, but in his eagerness leans back too far. The motion sends him tumbling backwards, hitting his head against the wall and crumpling to the floor. The bottle rolls out of his hand, spilling its amber contents into the hardwood.

Hermione and John are quiet in their surprise, but almost immediately Sherlock begins to snore- _loudly_ \- and they are both sent spiraling once again into laughter.

"Well then," Watson is the first to regain his composure, "I suppose I had better get him home…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione jumps, perhaps too eagerly, and heads to a nearby closet, "You'll just wake him if you try to move him, and what a state he'd be in if you did. He can sleep right where he's settled himself. There are extra blankets in here." She reaches for the closet door, knowing fully well it was empty. A twist of her ring sees it full of fresh linens as she swings the doors open. They smell like lilac, as if they had been hung to dry in a summer breeze. She smiles at her own talent and pulls out a blanket. She turns around to see John skeptically eyeing his friend, who hasn't budged.

"That's really very kind of you, Hermione, but I'm not sure how Sherlock will feel about it come the morning… Things are quite out of sorts, you see…"

Hermione senses his hesitancy as that of someone who has trusted the wrong people before. She looks over at Sherlock passed out on her floor, and surprises herself for being grateful to them both for distracting her from another lonely evening.

She retrieves another blanker from the closet and smiles knowingly.

" , you are certainly welcome to spend the night as well. After all, what kind of man would abandon his friend on the floor of a stranger's den?"

Watson laughs, and Hermione delights in the sound. Such a genuine laugh, gilded with relief.

"It's settled then," she smiles brightly and claps her hands, turning to Sherlock, "What do you say- I'll get his shoes, you place a pillow under his head-"

But John stands and places his hand lightly on her arm, stopping her short.

"Hermione, I just want you to know your hospitality is truly appreciated."

She can't tell if his it was his intention to get _this_ close to her or if the Scotch had muddled his perspective of personal space, but either way she didn't mind. She enjoyed the warmth of his touch.

 _Think of something else._

 _Anything Else._

She forces herself to take in the blend of colors in his eyes. Blue on the outer rim. Mixes of green and grey towards the pupils. Flecks of gold throughout.

John smiles down at her, and her cheeks flush as their bodies slowly gravitate together. He whispers her name again as his hand slides ever so gently up to her shoulder.

"Heterochromia…" she whispers back, not realizing at some point she had closed her eyes and tilted her head in anticipation of meeting his.

John pulls away, dropping his hand.

"Um, come again?" Now he's the one blushing, and Hermione wishes she could crawl into the closet with the linens.

"Ah, your eyes," she looks down- _idiot!-_ "central heterochromia. I thought there was something odd about the two of you," she takes a step back and motions to Sherlock who is now drooling onto his lapel.

"You both have it; the mixing of the eye colors. It's not that common. His are a much lighter hue, therefore much more noticeable, but yours are quite love- um-"

She squeezes her eyes shut: _why can't you just shut up?!_

"Mine are quite what, exactly?" John is grinning, amused by the knowledge of what she was about to say. As she opens her mouth to respond, however-

"Lovely. She was going to say lovely. Christ, Watson. I'm absolutely buggered and only half conscious, but I still knew that,"

With that, Sherlock leans over and vomits- effectively killing any thoughts of romance for the remainder of the evening.


End file.
